


15

by Qitana



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Smoking, Tattoos, a little bit of body worship, bartender! yuri, dj! otabek, he's also almost completely impervious to the cold because of his russian blood, like so much of it, mafia!au, mentions of otabek's sister, which means, yuri dresses in whatever the fuck he feels like, yuri in skirts and crop tops and etc etc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-16 16:11:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11256432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Qitana/pseuds/Qitana
Summary: Looking up, Otabek quirks a brow, intrigued. His gaze is locked with the blonde’s, and he watches as his eyes flicker from blue to green over and over, like a stuttering heartbeat. His right leg is on the ground, the left one bent at the knee with the sole placed firmly on the brick wall. His upper body is leaned towards Otabek, his hand extended, where he holds a golden lighter, the flame burning bright.It’s an invitation.





	15

**Author's Note:**

> suffice to say, i spent far too much time on this. it started off as a pretty small idea and then blew up completely. 
> 
> i also listened to a lot of agnes obel while writing it. 
> 
> there are mentions of a side character death, and mentions of violence but it's very vague and non-descriptive; other than that, i hope you all enjoy!

Otabek is craving a cigarette.

He’s craving it the way a drowning man craves air, the way an addict craves the source of his demise. His entire body is wound tight, his shoulders squared, his eyebrows pinched, a headache forming just behind his cranium.

One look at his watch and Otabek decides _Fuck it_ ; he can’t stand this anymore, he has to get out of the club before he throws the nearest object, which happens to be a very expensive bottle of champagne.

He clears his throat and announces a small break, flashing a tight smile when the crowd groans in unison. Otabek grabs the rail and jumps over, making a beeline for the backdoor. His fingers soon curl around the handles and he damn near throws the doors open before weaving his way through chefs and busboys, eyes narrowed on his salvation at the far end of the room.

The moment he steps out, the cool autumn air greets him in the form of a breeze that caresses his face, and he welcomes it with a relieved smile. He loves the cold; it’s always bloody hot in that club, clammy and suffocating with an insistent heaviness in the air. Inhaling deeply, Otabek enjoys the smell of pine and the smoky after tones wafting in from God-knows-where, probably the Indian place a few shops down. This alleyway is his sanctum, his _safe_ place of sorts.

Pulling out a pack of cigarettes, Otabek flicks his wrist and pulls one out with his teeth. Pushing the flimsy box deep into his jacket pocket, Otabek pats down his pants till he finds his lighter.

That first drag is _exactly_ what he needs; his shoulders slump as he falls back, the brick wall catching him with a muted _thud_. It tastes of tobacco of course, but it’s a flavor he’s grown accustomed to. The smoke doesn’t burn anymore, it soothes his frazzled nerves. A sense of calm flows through the blood in his veins, reducing the pounding in his head. His eyes are lidded, a sense of security blanketing him because this is routine- this fifteen minute break he takes to smoke and ironically enough, _breathe_.

When he finally looks up from the cracked floor with its broken tiles, Otabek’s mouth goes slack, and he closes it just in time to catch the cigarette before it can fall to the ground, tragically wasted.

He hadn’t realized he isn't alone.

He’s always alone in the alley, at least at the time he takes his break. Granted, he’s out ten minutes earlier today, but still, he’s been working here for four years now, and this is the first time he’s meeting anyone; the first time he’s sharing this space.

Otabek plucks the cigarette out and looks up, exhaling the smoke in one long breath. The cloud scatters slowly, in a hauntingly mesmerizing fashion. Otabek keeps his eyes trained on it till the last wisps of it dissipate into thin air before looking down and taking another drag.

He really wasn’t going to look, wasn’t planning on it or anything, but his eyes gravitate to the figure leaning on the opposite wall, clearly _not_ looking at him, his gaze directed at the busy road at the end of the alley instead. Cars pass by at varying speeds, the headlights creating shadows that flicker across the man’s face.

Otabek studies him as discretely as possible, and he doesn’t bother denying it- the man is _beautiful._

In the conventional sense, the man is almost perfect- blonde hair that’s pulled into a high pony, pale skin, large eyes that are an astounding blue-green and a petite body. Yes, he’s certainly conventionally attractive.

But Otabek sees beauty in the scars that litter the man’s fingers, the ones currently wrapped around his own cigarette. He sees beauty in the defeated set of his shoulders, in the loneliness of his eyes, in the strength of his stance. He sees beauty that he can’t really explain but doesn’t feel the need to either. He’s always been attracted to power.

The man doesn’t look at him, and with one last fleeting glance - he’s wearing a dress shirt with the top few buttons undone and some black slacks – Otabek doesn’t look at him either.

The alley is quiet save for the sound of two souls breathing, almost as if in harmony. The air turns colder, _chillier_ , but Otabek hardly feels it. He enjoys the quiet of the night, but the sound of the other door snapping shut a few moments later is far louder than he thinks it should be.

He stubs out his cigarette and with a heavy sigh, makes his way back to the writhing bodies and the pounding music. _Just a few more hours_ he thinks to himself. 

When darkness wraps her welcoming arms around his mind that night, he dreams in shades of green and blue.

~

Otabek finds himself outside at the same time the next night; again ten minutes too early, though his craving for a smoke isn’t nearly as prevalent as the night before.

He doesn’t know what he’s hoping for till he sees the same man leaning on the opposite wall and a weight lifts off his sternum, letting him breathe more easily. He hadn’t even noticed it was there – that oppressive heaviness in his chest - till its distinct lack thereafter, and it doesn’t bother Otabek so much as it confounds him.

He leans against his wall and lights his smoke, inhaling gratefully. The alley smells of pine and fumes but that’s not it; there’s a spicier scent in the air, like a well picked perfume. Otabek guesses he has his, _companion_ , to thank for that. It’s not unpleasant though. Otabek won’t go so far as to say he likes it, but in its own way, it’s a welcome change.

The smell of smoke suffocates him sometimes.

~

They see each other every day for a week, maybe two, without saying a word. If Otabek didn’t know better, he’d say the man hadn’t even realized he was around.

But Otabek _does_ know. He knows and he _sees_ ; gazes, gazes that linger on his chest and his thighs, his body oriented so it faces Otabek fully, in a way that’s inviting without probably meaning to be. They aren’t friends, acquaintances, they are _nothing_ , but they find comfort in each other. After all, they meet every day at 11:54, keep each other company in a bubble of solitude before parting for another anguishing 24 hours till they meet again.

All for a fifteen minute smoke break.

Otabek finds himself smiling again. He doesn’t remember the last time he smiled so much of his own violation, but he doesn’t particularly mind.

Not when the man is looking at him again, at his mouth, at his smile perhaps.

Otabek wishes he could see the blonde smile someday.

~

It finally happens.

Otabek’s out in the alley, cigarette in mouth, the anticipation palpable at his fingertips but he can’t find his lighter anywhere. It isn’t in his coat, or his pant pockets, and for a beat Otabek feels _flustered_. He loves that lighter- it was a customized gift from his sister who’d saved months’ worth of pocket money to get the line she always whispers to him carved on it. 

_Even the darkest hour has only 60 minutes._

He’s had it since the moment she slipped it into his hand with a cheeky smile and rosy cheeks, and it’s almost like a part of her is with him at all times. 

Then he remembers placing it in his bag pack that afternoon and he exhales in a rush, the tension seeping out of his bones. It’s annoying that he has no way to light his smoke now though, and there’s no way he’ going back inside, so Otabek curls his fingers around the stick and moves to pull it out when a faint glow accompanied by a soft heat catches his attention.

Looking up, Otabek quirks a brow, intrigued. His eyes are locked with the blonde’s, and he watches as his eyes flicker from blue to green over and over, like a stuttering heartbeat. His right leg is on the ground, the left one bent at the knee with the sole placed firmly on the brick wall. His upper body is leaned towards Otabek, his hand extended, where he holds a golden lighter, the flame burning bright. 

It’s an invitation. 

Otabek pushes forward and lets the fire catch before leaning back and inhaling sharply. With an expert flick of his wrist, the man clicks the lighter shut and shoves it into his jacket pocket. He’s wearing shorts – it’s 8 degrees out – with fish net stockings, a white crop top with the words _I’m the bartender your mother warned you about_ printed in cursive and a bomber jacket. Otabek will admit- he looks pretty great.

Otabek looks away and breathes out, the smoke pouring out his mouth and nostrils. There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips. 

“Thank you.” 

It's just two words. Otabek’s voice is soft, tentative, exploratory. He’s not the kind to scare easily, but something about the situation is making him hesitant. He doesn’t want to ruin the tranquility, especially not when this man, this unknown, beautifully confusing man has become a part of his every day, fifteen minute smoke ritual. 

Otabek steels himself and turns to face the man. 

He’s _smiling_. 

Not just a small, cautious smile, or a sheepish grin, but a full blown, 100 megawatt upturn of his lips, the kind that reaches someone’s eyes – it _is_ reaching his eyes – and makes the corners of their eyes crinkle. Otabek is nothing short of astonished, and in the best way possible. He’d somehow pegged the guy as the heartless type, but this one smile changes everything. 

The man shrugs, smile in place. “You’re welcome.” 

His voice suits him- throaty, strong, fierce. He brings his cigarette up and places it between his pink, full lips and inhales pointedly, and it occurs to Otabek that the man may be, and for the life of him he can’t figure out why, the shy type. Either way, it’s an effective end to their brief conversation, if one can even call it that. 

The silence in the alley is broken, but the tranquility remains, a different kind of truce between them. 

~

Coming back the next evening is strange. Otabek knows something between them changed last night; the dynamic shifted, ever so slightly. He’s just not sure what this change entails exactly. 

Otabek nudges the doors open and steps out, the cold biting into his skin immediately. Moving to his spot, Otabek leans back and waits. The man isn’t there yet. Otabek wonders if he got cold feet after the events of the previous day and a part of him, no matter how small, laments the thought. 

Just as he moves to pull out his lighter, the door opposite his own is thrown open, and the blonde walks out in a huff, cheeks and nose stained pink. His eyes brighten when they land on Otabek, who gives him a curt nod in greeting. The man flashes him a smile – subdued, but _true_ \- and proceeds to stand right opposite Otabek. This is new too; they never greet each other and the man always stands just a little to the left of Otabek. 

Not that Otabek minds of course. 

Lighting their respective smokes, the two draw in a lung full of smoke, letting it settle before sighing, letting it escape slowly and thoroughly. Otabek leans his head back, feeling sated. 

“What’s your favorite genre?” 

The question takes Otabek by surprise. Honestly, the man speaking to him at all takes him by surprise- he’d just assumed the two of them would pretend yesterday never happened and go on the way they always have. He’s not upset at this particular turn of events.

“Rock. I love rock.” 

Otabek is looking at him, _shamelessly_. Beauty and art deserve appreciation in his opinion, and this man is a tragic mess of both. His hair is messier today, with soft waves making it curl at the bottom. It’s always ridiculously straight. He’s staring at Otabek’s headphones, the one’s circling his neck, and looking at Otabek expectantly. 

It’s like playing a game. 

“What about you?” 

The man’s brows scrunch in the middle, his fingers coming up to cup his chin thoughtfully. Otabek waits patiently, cigarette in hand, tiny billows of smoke rising up. 

“If I were to choose,” the man murmurs, before continuing more loudly, “it would be a mix between classical and pop.” 

The answer makes Otabek laugh, loud and uninhibited, because it’s so _odd_. The man pouts cutely and Otabek smiles back, lifting his cigarette to his lips. The man continues to pout and finishes his smoke in a few angry puffs before stomping it out quite indignantly and moving to throw his doors open. Otabek wants to call him back and apologize for teasing him but before he can, the man speaks again, his voice a mere whisper that threatens to be swallowed by the darkness of the night sky; there are no stars in this city. 

“Yuri Plisetsky.” 

Otabek startles at the admission, nearly biting down on the stick between his lips. He mouths the name once, trying it for himself and it tastes _right_ rolling off his tongue. 

Yuri is lingering by the door, one foot in, one foot out. Waiting. 

Otabek’s eyes flutter shut. “Otabek Altin.” 

The sound of the door closing is silent, but it still echoes in the alley. 

~

Conversations don’t come easily to them, at least not the first few days. 

They start small, with nods and pleasant _All ok?_ ’s that become customary, but Otabek knows they’re both seeking more. It’s just proving to be a little difficult; getting there, that is. 

The real breakthrough though, is when Yuri slams the door open one day and walks out hotly, his entire face painted with annoyance. Otabek watches him silently and allows him to settle, at least a little, before speaking up.

“What happened?” 

Yuri looks up so fast, it’s almost comical, like he hadn’t expected anything but the regular _All ok?_ His eyes narrow as he regards Otabek carefully before throwing his hands up and shaking his head. 

“These bastards at the bar I tell you,” he snarls, slowly beginning to pace. He somehow resembles a caged beast, perhaps a tiger, lurking from one corner to the other. “I don’t deny that I’m attractive, but if one more old geezer hits on me, I’m going to kill someone.” 

Otabek’s mouth twitches but he swallows down a smile; it’s not wholly appropriate. Yuri’s rant takes off from there- about how annoying old men are, how stupid that bar is, how he wishes he could chop their dicks the way he chops lemons. Otabek almost unconsciously crosses his legs at that one. 

Yuri finally calms down and groans, falling heavily against the wall. “Enough about me,” he declares, roughly pulling out a smoke, “what’s up with you?” 

Otabek licks his lips. “Not much really. The club is the same as always- filled to the brim with hot sweaty bodies of people that have too much money and no idea how to spend it.” 

Yuri nods, his features leaking empathy. 

“Tell me about it.” Shuffling a little on his feet, he takes a drag before continuing. “It’s infuriating, watching these bastards throw away all this money that most likely isn’t even theirs on such superficial shit.”

Otabek nods absently before redirecting the conversation to something lighter. He doesn’t like the taste of the air. 

“You’re a bartender?”

It’s a question and a statement wrapped in one. Yuri smiles and gives him a thumbs up with his free hand. He’s wearing a dress today- black, mid-thigh, with those same fish net stockings that make his legs look nothing short of delectable, a pair of boots and a jacket. It’s still freezing out, but Yuri doesn't seem the least bit affected. 

Otabek silently questions his humanity. 

“What’s your favorite drink?” 

Yuri doesn’t wait a second before gleefully declaring, “Bronx. Orange flavored things are awesome, in my personal experience. What about you?” 

Otabek looks to the side, trying to recall. He isn’t much of a drinker; the taste and the after effects don’t really appeal to him. “I’m more of a beer man,” he finally concedes. “Though, if I had to pick a harder alcohol, it would probably be whisky.”

Yuri snorts. “Heh, called it!” 

When Otabek shoots him a confused look, Yuri grins and clarifies. “You seemed like a beer kinda guy.” 

Otabek likes this- easy conversation, mindless and small, but intimate in a different way. He doesn’t feel like he’s being forced to talk, to interact, which is nice. He gets anxious around new people, but with Yuri it feels so familiar, so natural, like inhaling the smoke rising from the stick in his hand. 

He’s about to ask something, anything really, to keep the conversation going, when Yuri glances at his phone and squeaks. 

“Yikes, I have to go!” 

He pushes off the wall and stamps out is cigarette, making a beeline for the door. Shoving it open, Yuri steps in half way before looking back and staring at Otabek, unabashed. 

Otabek returns the gaze coolly, an amused smirk twisting his lips. 

Yuri clears his throat. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?” 

Otabek nods mutely and Yuri is gone, nothing but that spicy scent left to remind Otabek that he was ever there. 

~

They become _something_. 

Friends is not quite the term Otabek is looking for. They are friends, in some vague sense of the word, but what they have is too intimate, too strange to be classified as such. Yuri becomes increasingly comfortable around Otabek, his actions and features more relaxed. The talks become easier too, ranging from teasing to quiet bickering, sometimes even a simple sharing of opinions. 

“I’m just saying, tigers are the coolest cats ever. Like ever.” 

Otabek huffs out a laugh, fingers tightening around his smoke. “I don’t disagree.” 

Yuri nods, a satisfied smile on his face. “Good.” 

The matters are mostly trivial. Their intimacy doesn’t stem from how well they know one another on a conscious level; rather, it’s all about the small, nearly unperceivable things. It’s in the way Otabek knows Yuri is anxious when he shuffles and taps his feet against the ground. It’s in the way Yuri doesn’t talk as much when Otabek’s shoulders are squared, his guard up when he has a bad day at work, giving him some space to _breathe_. It’s in the way they just _know_. 

Otabek sometimes wonders if he misses the silence from before. 

He doesn’t. 

~

It’s not like it wasn’t there from the start, because it was, but of late, it’s become more _tangible_ , less easy to ignore and shove to the side. 

It’s no secret to either of them that Otabek finds Yuri attractive. Yuri teasingly asks Otabek what he thinks about his outfit on an almost every day basis, and Otabek answers honestly. He’s impressed with Yuri’s view on the whole subject. 

“I’ve always worn what I like,” Yuri had said, a strange look on his face. “The kids at school tried to bully me but stopped when they realized I didn’t give a fuck. I don’t like assigning genders to anything, especially clothes and toys and the like. It’s stupid.” 

Otabek had never given it much thought, but Yuri made some good points. Otabek himself never refrains from donning on eyeliner every once in a while, and when his sister wants to paint his nails, he’s always request a shiny coat of black. It suits him, and he’s even tried to emulate her careful skills a few times on himself, failing miserably. Perhaps he should make a better effort. 

When Otabek had relayed this information to Yuri, his eyes had widened, an appreciative smile tugging at his lips. “I bet you look hot in nail polish.” 

So it was firmly established- the feelings of attraction were mutual. After that one evening, the sexual energy between them had become palpable. It constricts Otabek’s throat in a pleasurable way, in a way that makes him want to wrap his own fingers around Yuri’s throat and squeeze, till Yuri is _panting_ for more. He’s never looked at Yuri and seen something breakable or delicate. He sees raw strength, coiled tight in a lithe body, with a feral smile and a wicked glint in those mesmerizing eyes. 

And so it builds. The energy thrives off the fact that neither of them decides to talk about it, or even acknowledge it, and it grows, scenting the air with a taste that’s electric on Otabek’s tongue. Sometimes he feels Yuri’s eyes on him, positively ravenous, and a pleasurable shudder works its way down his spine. 

It thickens till Otabek almost cant _stand_ it. Of course, it doesn’t help one bit that Otabek’s never been this blatantly tempted by someone before, never felt this _pull_ , like Yuri has a gravity of his own that’s forcing Otabek into his orbit. And Otabek is helpless in resisting; there’s not a single part of him that really wants to. 

So Otabek walks out the door that day, shoving his hands deep in his pockets, huffing out harshly. His breath crystalizes and he sighs, shaking his head. 

The cold is hurtful now, freezing him to his very core. 

Yuri isn’t there when he arrives, so he leans back against the icy brick wall, waiting. He’s got a cigarette in hand, and he inhales deeply, letting the warm smoke create a hot trail down his throat, warming him from the inside. Facing the starless sky, Otabek exhales, the sound softer than a lonely heartbeat. 

Yuri doesn’t come that day. 

Otabek waits, for the usual fifteen minutes, then a few minutes longer, his fingers twitching anxiously. Something feels wrong, something feels _amiss_. 

Otabek’s gut clenches unpleasantly, a variety of gruesome scenarios casually flitting through his mind. He’s been in the business long enough to witness things no person should have to, things that feed his nightmares lavishly. He’s sure his fears are silly, figments of his imagination that are getting out of hand. 

He’s not stupid enough to be quite so optimistic. 

~

Yuri doesn’t show. 

For another day, and the next, and the next, and the one after that. 

It feels wrong. So incomprehensibly wrong. 

~

Two weeks pass. 

Otabek’s restlessness is infuriating, like he can’t even take a break when he’s on a break. With every day that Yuri doesn’t show, Otabek seems to forget something about him. The exact shade of blonde his hair is, the indents in his cheeks when he smiles, the tone of his voice when he hums. They’re fading, and Otabek feels lost. 

When the doors opposite Otabek’s building open slowly, his head snaps up and his eyes land on Yuri. 

It’s like a sucker punch to the gut. 

Yuri looks disheveled, his hair messy and clothes unmatched. His eyes are red rimmed, but that’s not the only addition to his face. 

There’s a faint purple that’s yellowing around his left eye, and a cut on his lower lip. When he steps away from the door and walks to the side before leaning into the wall, there’s a slight limp in his step. And the ever so tiny hiss of pain that escapes his lips when his back touches the wall tells Otabek all he needs to know. 

Yuri fumbles around for a cigarette and his lighter – his ridiculous, tiger stripped lighter – and with shaky fingers, he manages to wrap his lips around the stick and inhale. His body is still slightly tensed, like he’s expecting Otabek to be mad, or ignore him or walk away. 

Otabek does nothing. 

He’s watching Yuri, checking him for more injuries, but doesn’t spot any. Yuri has on high waisted shorts and a crop top, with plain black stockings and a jacket; normally, he wouldn’t react to the plummeting temperatures at all, but today, he _shivers_.

Otabek hates that it has nothing to do with the weather. 

Smoking the rest of his cigarette in oppressed silence, Otabek finally snubs it against the brick wall before flinging it away. He stands up, drawing to his full height, and walks forward, crossing the imaginary line between them, the line that separates their physical bodies and lives. He crosses it like it doesn’t exist, has never existed, and takes in the surprised widening of Yuri’s eyes.

He sees no fear there, just confusion and the smallest, tiniest smidgen of something akin to _hope_.

“I need names.” 

His voice is clear, no stutters or hesitation. He means business, and Yuri knows it. Yuri looks away, his eyes reflecting the Christmas lights that sparkle in the distance and bites his lip, wincing when his teeth sink into the cut. He’s still shivering, his free arm wrapped around his middle. He isn’t leaning into the wall anymore, standing as tall as he can, and his presence is strong, even if Otabek’s got a little height over him. 

With a resigned sigh, Yuri breathes out two names, eyes downcast. He doesn’t look up to see Otabek nodding slowly, or when he slowly shrugs out of his leather jacket. He doesn’t even look up when Otabek slings it over his shoulders and walks away, the door slamming shut with an echoing _thud_.

He just sinks to the floor, pulling the jacket closer, buried in Otabek’s scent. 

~

One look at Otabek’s knuckles and Yuri shakes his head fondly, walking towards him and leaning on _Otabek’s_ wall, like it’s the most natural thing to do. They smoke in silence, eyes closed and heads tipped back, the cold air nipping at their throats. 

Yuri’s hand finds Otabek’s, icy cold fingers weaving through rough, larger ones and he squeezes, mindful of the cuts and marks on his knuckles. 

Yuri’s head lolls, his forehead resting on Otabek’s shoulder. 

“Thank you.” 

Otabek brings the cigarette to his lips and takes a long, satisfying drag. He doesn’t dignify the statement with a verbal answer. 

But his fingers tighten around Yuri’s, reassuring and _vulnerable_ , opening his bruises and cuts. The blood drips down his knuckles just as Yuri places a chaste kiss on his shoulder. 

~

Yuri never uses his wall again. 

Their weight is pressed firmly into the wall as they face each other, engaged in yet another one of their playful banters. 

“But I’m telling you,” Yuri gushes, waving his cigarette around, “that man’s disposition towards anarchy is frightening! He’s hell bent on insisting it is the _only_ way of life.” 

Otabek sniggers, hand coming up to cover his mouth. “Think about it though.” He takes a quick drag before continuing, “A day of pandemonium. No social systems, no hierarchies, no underground business. Everybody equal.” 

His words hang between them, heavy and impossible. It’s a reality that will never come to be, and _that_ is their actuality. Yuri sobers immediately, his face falling, looking sullen. Otabek ducks his head, trying to catch Yuri’s eye. There’s a question he’s been wanting to ask. Yuri looks at him and nods.

“Tomorrow.” 

Giving Otabek’s hand a slight squeeze, Yuri yanks the cigarette out of his mouth and stubs it before trudging towards his building. Otabek watches him leave, feeling closer to him than before and further away than ever. 

He hadn’t even realized they were holding hands. 

~

“My grandfather was Nikolai.” 

They’re finally talking, about what happened to Yuri, or rather why it happened, why he’s _trapped_ here. 

At the confession, Otabek’s eyes widen, in surprise and wonderment. Yuri smiles sadly, mouth pressed in a thin lie.

“I know, I don’t look anything like him. But yeah, he was my gramps. And we were really close- my mom sorta lost it after quitting her job. He was like a parent and a friend, you know? Anyways, I loved gramps and we were always together, even while he led an entire underground mob, all on his own.” Yuri takes a drag of his smoke before shrugging and rephrasing. “Ok, maybe not completely alone, he had Viktor, but still. He ran the whole scene, you know? 

So anyway, I was roped into this scene whether I liked it or not. Gramps mostly kept his private and public lives separate, but I had seen my fair share of blood and death in my youth. Eventually, you, you stop caring, you know?” 

Otabek nods, because yes, _of course_ he knows, God he’s both glad and lamenting that he’s not the only one.

“So when gramps passed, he hadn’t really made it clear who inherited the land and the cartel and everything. I mean, I guess he wanted to protect me, gimme a chance to start over maybe.”

Yuri laughs, humorlessly. It’s a dark, almost morbid bark of laughter, and his hands are shaking. Otabek grabs one of them gently and squeezes, grounding Yuri. 

Yuri glances up at him before looking away. “They came after me. I’m more than capable of taking care of myself, of course. But they sent groups, gangs, fucking _herds_ of people. They wanted me dead.”

Yuri bites his lip and exhales, brows furrowed. “A group managed to catch me. They were so close to slaughtering me, so close to ending it all, when Viktor showed up, just in time to convince them to take me alive, that maybe I could be of some use. He made gratuitous use of beautiful face and feminine body.” Yuri’s lips were twisted in a vile sneer, somewhere between grateful and pained. Otabek didn’t let his true emotions seep out, but they both knew he was positively fuming.

“And so, finally, they gave me a position at this sleazy bar-come-poker place, where I dress up stupidly and make the world’s best drinks.” Yuri finishes his smoke and flings it away, as if channeling his anger into the stick. 

If only it were that simple. 

Yuri smiles at him lazily, eyes soft and curious, “What about you?”

“What _about_ me?” 

Yuri shoves him playfully. “Why are you here, Beka?” 

The nickname is, it’s a source of embarrassment for Otabek. Not in the _Oh my god, this name is so dumb ugh_ kinda way but more of the _Stop, I’m gonna blush uncontrollably if you continue_ kinda way. Nobody had given him a nickname before, but he’s almost completely sure if it weren’t Yuri, he wouldn’t have liked it anyway. 

“I saw something I shouldn’t have. Walked in on a job, a murder, and instead of killing me, they took me to the boss. He asked what I could do and I said music, that I’m good with music. His right hand man mentioned they needed a DJ for a nearby club so he told me he’d pay well, and that he wouldn’t kill me, so long as I overlook all the exchanges and keep the crowd entertained.” 

It’s Yuri’s turn to squeeze his hand and Otabek is grateful for the attention. He doesn’t really mind anymore, he’s become numb to it all. 

And sometimes, that’s a scary thing to think about. 

“If you could be anything else,” Yuri asks, voice cracking, “what would it be?”

Otabek hums, low in his throat. “I, I actually don’t know.” He nudges Yuri softly, finishing the rest of his smoke and pressing it to the wall. “And you?” 

“An ice skater.” 

Otabek can imagine it- Yuri in one of those fancy, sparkling outfits with the deep back cuts, fabric clinging to every inch of his lean, toned body, hair pulled into a loose bun. He can picture the grace with which Yuri would fly across the ice, captivating the audience, leaving them entranced. 

The scene leaves him breathless. 

For a single moment, he wishes Yuri could have all of that, a life that he much rather deserved than this bleak excuse for one. 

Even if that meant he couldn’t be here with him, right now, in this dark diminished alley.

~

Otabek doesn’t _plan_ it, not at all, but in retrospect, he realizes none of the things that have happened in that alley were ever planned. 

The day is just like any other- the club is loud and troublesome, Otabek is craving a smoke and maybe the warmth of Yuri’s side pressed against his. He makes it out back and waits for Yuri, who appears moments later, and the two lean into the wall, backs lined against it, sides flush against one another. Otabek already has a cigarette twirling between his fingers and he pushes it into his mouth, cupping the flame as he lights the stick. With practiced ease, he clicks his lighter shut and pushes it into his pocket, inhaling long and deep. 

Yuri is fidgeting next to him and Otabek turns to face him, curious about the fuss. 

“I can’t find my lighter,” Yuri explains, and they both experience an acute sense of déjà vu. Otabek smiles fondly, and Yuri continues to search till he suddenly slaps his forehead, whining loudly. “I left it in the drawer of the bar!” 

Otabek chuckles into the back of his palm and Yuri shoves him away, pouting. Pulling out his own smoke, Yuri places it between his lips and stares at Otabek, who stares back. With a resigned sigh, Yuri asks, “Can you please lend me your lighter?”

Otabek smirks and reaches for his pocket but pauses when a thought, so brief it’s almost gone before he can comprehend it, flits through his mind. It’s stupid, well, at least a little, but suddenly Otabek wants to. Really, really badly. 

Pushing off the wall, Otabek takes a step to the side and then one step forward. He’s right in front of Yuri now, pressing into his personal space, their legs touching. Yuri has gone silent, his every breath a soft whisper, ghosting over Otabek’s face. 

Otabek leans in, coming closer and closer, till he can see the individual hairs of Yuri’s lashes. He comes even closer, his hands bracing the wall on either side of Yuri’s head, their gazes locked, neither of them willing to look away. He comes a little closer before halting, their cigarettes touching. Yuri’s smoke catches light and begins to burn and Otabek pulls away slowly, eyes never leaving Yuri’s. He pulls the cigarette out of his mouth and turns his head, exhaling slowly before turning to face the blonde again. He licks his lips, the roll of his tongue slow, languid, carnal.

An invitation. 

Yuri pulls the cigarette away and looks down, sighing lengthily. The smoke leaves him in a warm gush, like a waterfall in the pale winter night. His head rolls up slowly, his eyes roving over Otabek’s neck, his jaw, his _lips_ , his nose, his eyes. 

_Him_.

Otabek leans in, lips ghosting over Yuri’s, a promise, a way out, a declaration. 

Yuri answers it all by simply covering that miniscule distance, sealing his lips over Otabek’s. 

There’s no soft and gentle, no easy and romantic, it’s just _raw_ lust that’s so intimate, it’s overwhelming. Yuri kisses Otabek like he’s trying to eat him alive, biting and sucking at his lower lip till it’s swollen and sensitive. 

Otabek licks along the seam of Yuri’s lips and when the blonde moans, he shoves his tongue inside and enjoys the wet heat, sucking at his tongue and licking in lush, deep strokes that make Yuri shudder in his arms. He tongue fucks him slowly, intensely, taking his time driving Yuri absolutely _insane_. 

He definitely succeeds. 

Yuri’s fingers are fisting his hair, his nails running through Otabek’s undercut and scratching it in this way that makes Otabek rut against him, panting in his mouth. His hands slide down the wall and grabs at Yuri’s hips, squeezing them before one hand moves to his ass, kneading it gently while the other tangles in Yuri’s hair, angling his head so Otabek can kiss him better, kiss him till he’s shivering and whimpering.

Time ceases to exist. There’s just Yuri with his spicy scent, his soft hair, his alluring laugh, his silver tongue, just him, pressed against Otabek, their bodies molding to fit into one another. Yuri’s hand is fisting the front of Otabek’s jacket, trying to pull him closer, closer, _closer_. 

Otabek holds him against the wall and breaks the kiss, leaving a trail of soft pecks along his angled jaw, the line of his throat, his pulse, his collarbones. Yuri is whimpering, a garbled _Beka_ escaping his lips in a silent plea. 

Otabek’s lips find his and he kisses Yuri. It’s softer this time, less animalistic and more pleading. 

For once, Otabek doesn’t want to let go. 

~

Kisses become common practice for them. 

They kiss as a greeting, they kiss to escape their fates, they kiss to soothe, to heal, to _love_. 

They still talk, Yuri using his entire body and Otabek listening, a fond expression painted across his features. There’s a new sort of intimacy that blankets over them, in the way that they gravitate towards each other and end up with their lips firmly pressed, licking and tasting and exploring, slow and thorough. Otabek can’t resist, it’s an inevitability that he’s come to terms with rather willingly, and Yuri melts in his arms, mellow and vulnerable. 

Otabek’s never seen a more beautiful sight. 

“And so,” Yuri says, a lollipop instead of a cigarette in his hand, “I told him to go fuck himself-“ Otabek bends down and pecks him. Yuri blinks before clearing his throat and continuing, “Yeah, so I told him to fuck himself and he looked so _stunned_ , it was pricel-“ Otabek leans back down and kisses him again. When he pulls back, Yuri’s eyes flutter open and his eyebrows furrow with annoyance. “Stop that,” he chides, lightly smacking Otabek’s arm. “So yeah, he stares at me like I’m a unicorn, which doesn’t upset me, and th-“ 

Otabek leans down and presses his lips to Yuri’s and Yuri gives up with a defeated sigh, kissing him back. 

“You’re not gonna let me finish this story, are you?” he asks, with a laugh in his voice. Otabek shakes his head and Yuri throws his head back, peals of laughter bubbling out of him. 

Otabek’s smile is tiny, barely there, so filled with affection. Yuri cups his cheek and tilts his head up a little, beckoning the man closer. 

Their lips meet again, and they don’t say another word, allowing their bodies to do the talking for them. 

~

Otabek is staring at the road, the dazzling lights blurring his vision when Yuri walks out, determined. 

Otabek drinks him in – the bow of his lips, the crimson of his cheeks - before asking, “What are you thi-“

Yuri grabs the lapels of his coat and shoves Otabek against the wall, rough and hurried, lips hunting along Otabek’s throat till he finds the man’s mouth and he kisses, unapologetic. There’s a ferocity in the way that he _grinds_ against Otabek, demanding more, like the little minx he is. 

Otabek doesn’t object- on the contrary, he twists them around and pins Yuri to the wall, hands digging into the soft flesh of his hips before dipping under his shirt, feeling the warm skin there. A shudder works its way through Yuri’s body and he nibbles on Otabek’s lips, hands looped around his shoulders. Otabek’s fingers skim the length of Yuri’s body, feeling the firm muscles, the soft skin of his back decorated with cuts, bruises and stitches before dragging his nails down his spine. Yuri _hisses_ , breaking the kiss and biting Otabek’s neck to stifle the moans threatening to spill out. 

Otabek moves away reluctantly, breathing heavily. “Are we-?”

Yuri is looking at him, his gaze piercing, the message in his eyes crystal clear. A small nod is all the confirmation Otabek needs. 

It’s just his luck that Yuri is wearing a skirt. Otabek sinks to his knees in one fluid motion and bites his bare thigh, sucking a bruise into it. Yuri cries out before stuffing his fist in his mouth, glaring at Otabek with accusing eyes. Otabek flashes him a cheeky smirk before nosing at the soft flesh of Yuri’s inner thigh, licking and nibbling in small, quick strokes. Yuri’s fingers find Otabek’s hair and grabs it, gentle but firm. 

Otabek finally pushes his head under the skirt and lifts it up slowly, a silent request. Yuri complies, albeit a little hesitantly, and holds the skirt for him, giving him easier access, giving him explicit permission. His cock is straining against the material of his underwear, a tiny wet spot soaking the material. Otabek grins to himself and opens his mouth wide, mouthing at the cock through the material. 

Yuri is bent over, legs trembling, voice hoarse and pleading. He’s begging, _begging_ Otabek to do something, _anything_. 

“Beka, Beka, _Beka_ -“ 

Otabek takes pity on him and pulls his underwear down slowly, just to tease him a little. Yuri yells at him to be nice and Otabek bites him in return, earning him a gasp and a sharp tug of his hair. 

Oh, he likes _that_. 

Yuri’s cock is flushed and pink, not small by any means but not really comparable to Otabek’s either. There’s a liberal amount of precome overflowing from the tip, and it paints a very delicious picture, practically urging Otabek to eat to his heart’s content. 

And so he does. 

The first lick is met with a sob from Yuri. Otabek licks him from the base of his cock, all the way to the very tip, tongue circling the head in strong, rough strokes. He wraps his lips around the head and sucks gently, licking at the slit. Yuri’s knees tremble, small little sounds beckoning Otabek to do more, so much more. 

Otabek takes him in all at once, till the hilt, swallowing around his cock. Yuri’s fingers are scratching along Otabek’s nape, garbled praises and whimpers spilling off his tongue freely. 

Otabek slowly begins to bobs his head, his fingers hooking into Yuri’s underwear and pulling them down till they pool around his ankles. Releasing his cock with a wet _pop_ , Otabek begins to stroke him at a languid, torturous pace. He’s looking up now, and Yuri is staring back, pupils blown, mouth slightly open. 

Otabek pushes his free hand up and holds out three fingers. “Suck.” 

There’s a flicker of something _intense_ in Yuri’s gaze before he looks at the fingers with lidded eyes, his mouth opening slowly as he moves closer and closer. His tongue catches the index finger first and he sinks down on the digits, his warm mouth engulfing Otabek’s fingers in a pressure that makes him question how long he’d last if it surrounded his semi-hard cock. The thought makes him shudder pleasantly, and he quickens the pace of his strokes, licking the tip lightly. 

Yuri moans around his fingers and sucks harder, coating them liberally. Otabek pulls them out gently and brings his hand down, moving it past Yuri’s cock and along his crack. The anticipation is thick; he can feel Yuri holding his breath. He feels his hole twitch, and a smile works its way onto Otabek’s lips. 

In one fluid move, Otabek sinks down on Yuri’s cock and pushes a finger in, past the tight ring of muscles. Yuri is reduced to a blubbering mess, making incomprehensible sounds low in his throat. Otabek continues to bob his head quickly, swallowing and sucking around his cock, hand palming Yuri’s balls. He finger fucks him long and hard, searching for that magic spot he knows will truly make the man lose all sense of being. 

A hoarse shout tumbles out of Yuri’s mouth, and Otabek knows he’s found it. 

When Yuri finally comes, with two fingers in him and Otabek stroking him firmly, he sinks to the floor in front of Otabek, trembling everywhere. Otabek shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over Yuri, hugging him gently in the process. Yuri presses his lips against Otabek’s pulses, inhaling his scent and smiling against his neck. 

Yuri’s hand makes its way to Otabek’s throbbing dick, and Otabek can feel the curve of his smirk against his skin. 

“Next time, you’ll be the one panting.”

Yuri keeps his promise. 

~

“Anywhere in this world, huh?” 

Otabek and Yuri stay hidden in the shadows cast by the sickly street lights, a patch of black in a stream of gold. Otabek’s arm is slung over Yuri’s shoulder, playing with the tips of his blonde hair. It’s grown out, Otabek notes, deciding he likes it. Yuri’s always had the prettiest hair. 

Yuri nods, hands extended in front on him, “Anywhere! Absolutely anywhere you can think of.” 

Otabek hums, twirling his finger, a lock of Yuri’s hair curling around it. 

“I want to go home. I haven’t been back in a long time.”

_I want to see her._

Yuri nods, and in the darkness, Otabek doesn’t see the sadness in his eyes. 

“You have a home, that’s, that’s nice. I miss that.” 

Otabek turns and presses an insistent kiss to Yuri’s temple. 

_She’s my home._

He’s scared to admit the rest. 

_So are you._

~

Otabek dreams about him sometimes.

He dreams about a boy, sitting beneath a gigantic, dark wood piano with an old, powerful man at the helm, playing symphonies that soothe his trembling core.

Nikolai was known to be a splendid pianist.

He dreams of silky blonde hair, of a tinkling laugh and rosy, tinted cheeks. He wants to press kisses to Yuri’s dimples and hold him close, promising him that everything is going to be ok.

But even if it’s a dream, he cannot lie.

He can never lie to Yuri.

~

They’re sitting down on an old cloth Yuri had snagged from home, Otabek with his back to the wall, Yuri between his thighs, his feet planted on either side of Otabek’s hips. Yuri’s hands are carding through his undercut before moving down to scratch the stubble on his chin.

“Prickly,” he comments with a smile. “I like it.”

Otabek leans into his hand and lets his eyes drift shut, enjoying the warmth of his palm and the clean scent of his skin, slightly mixed with the smell of tobacco and vodka.

Yuri caresses his cheek with his thumb, “It’s sexy.”

Otabek huffs out a small laugh and leans in, grabbing Yuri by the collar of his shirt and gently tugging him forward, till their lips are pressed in an unbearably sweet kiss. When he pulls back, Yuri’s eyes are still closed, lips pink and lush.

He blinks at Otabek slowly, like he’s waking up from a dream, and for a second, for just one tiny moment, there’s no sadness in those blue-green orbs, just a deep rooted contentment that makes Otabek’s heart constrict painfully.

There were times in his life where he’d forgotten he even had a beating heart.

~

“I cannot believe you hid this from me.”

Otabek rolls his eyes and taps his cigarette, watching as the ash falls off. Yuri smacks him in the stomach before continuing, “I’m serious Beka! You hid the fact that you owned a _motorcycle_ from me! That’s such a shitty thing to do.”

Otabek sighs and turns his face, swooping down and pressing a fleeting kiss to Yuri’s lips. “Sorry.”

Yuri _hmmps_ before groaning. “Ok, I forgive you, but just so you know, motorcycles are unbearably sexy.”

Otabek inhales slowly, handing the stick to Yuri as he exhales.

“I have two helmets.”

Yuri smiles, as if considering the possibility of someday using it.

Wishful thinking, and they both know it. The thought of it, however, is no less appealing.

~

Yuri is a temperamental person. Otabek has his own fair share of mood swings, but he doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve, not the way Yuri does.

He admires that about the man.

Yuri’s mouth is set in a firm, tense line, eyebrows pinched in ill-concealed annoyance. It’s like he’s thinking too hard, like whatever it is that’s going through his mind is proving to be too much to bare. Otabek gently nudges him and catches his gaze, cocking his head inquisitively.

“No, just.” Yuri sighs, ruffling his hair, pulling at the strands harshly. Otabek catches the fringe that covers his eye and pushes it behind his ear, cupping Yuri’s face once he’s done. Yuri inhales sharply, looking at Otabek with pleading, pained eyes.

“I get so confused sometimes, thinking about us. About _this_.”

Otabek swallows, but doesn’t move away. He can’t put his answer in words, can’t further solidify what’s already between them, because the very thought of it makes him feel the kind of fear that chills someone to the bone, rendering them immobile. Yuri scares him, he scares him, he absolutely _terrifies_ him.

Moving slowly, Otabek rests his forehead against Yuri’s, his other hand cupping Yuri’s other cheek, framing his face with warm, bruised palms. He shuts his eyes, shuts out the world, focuses on the sound of Yuri’s breathing.

In, out, in, out.

His metronome.

He can’t put it in words, but he hopes, almost _prays_ that Yuri understands, even just a little.

Yuri smiles through his tears.

~

Otabek is on the floor - the cold, hard, disgusting floor – with his knees pulled to his chest, face buried between his knees.

A small hand curls around his shoulder, before a worried voice asks, “Beka?”

When he doesn’t look up, doesn’t answer, Yuri takes a seat beside him, leaning his weight into Otabek. His chin rests on Otabek’s bicep. He doesn’t speak, giving the brunette some time to think, to reply of his own accord.

Otabek finally looks up, eyes locked with Yuri’s.

“She’s getting sicker, and I can’t stop it.”

Yuri’s face crumples, and his hand loops through Otabek’s, seeking his fingers. He twines them together and holds Otabek tightly. He doesn’t promise it’s going to be ok, because it’s not. Of course it’s not.

Otabek cries, and Yuri holds him, close to the heart.

~

“Something about me that you don’t know huh?”

Otabek nods, a shy smile in place. “I mean, I know you’re shameless-“ he receives a punch for that “-and around you, so am I, but you must have failed to mention _something_.”

Yuri pouts, lips pulled to the right side of his face, eyes narrowed. He keeps at it for a few moments before shrugging in defeat. “I got nothing. I mean, I have a tattoo on my back, but I-“

“Where?”

Yuri raises a brow but turns around, lifting the hem of his shirt to expose the ink on his skin. Otabek’s eyes travel up the line of his spine, taking in the design slowly, soaking it in. He doesn’t understand it immediately, but when he does, it steals his breath away.

“Ever-changing, but never different,” Yuri murmurs to no one, his hand holding his hair up in a make do ponytail while Otabek holds his shirt against his shoulders. “I want to be better, be stronger, be fierce and loyal and kind. But I still want to be _me_.”

Otabek kisses each circle, each moon that represents the cycle, from no moon to crescent to half to full before reversing. He kisses till he reaches the base of his spine and presses his lip to the bone, smiling when a shiver and a breathless gasp seep out of Yuri’s body. Nipping gently, he pushes Yuri’s shirt back down and turns him, pressing him into the wall and kissing him tenderly.

Yuri never fails to move him till he feels something shift his very foundation, uprooting everything, creating havoc in his mind.

He never wants him to stop.

~

Otabek is standing there, eyes shut and head tipped back, breathing in the stale city air. There’s blood on his shoes from a fight that happened about an hour ago, there’s a gun strapped to his chest, just as insurance, and he’s tired.

He’s so, so _tired_.

He’s about to crush the stick in his hand when Yuri steps out and spots him from above the scarf wrapped around his neck and mouth, and by the crinkling of his eyes, Otabek knows he’s smiling, hard.

He walks over to Yuri, throwing the cigarette away in the process, and pulls his scarf down gently, thumb tracing the outline of Yuri’s lower lip. Yuri nips on the rough skin of his finger before looking at him through thick lashes, and Otabek doesn’t hesitate to kiss him full on the mouth. The kiss lingers, the way Yuri’s scent does when he’s gone; spicy and smoky.

“Tomorrow.”

Yuri cocks his head. Otabek kisses him again, harder, insistent, reassuring.

“Tomorrow, we’ll use that second helmet.”

Yuri doesn’t smile but he stares at Otabek, his eyes wide and a little watery. Otabek sees so many emotions flow across like a river current that’s too strong. He wants to ask Yuri to slow down, but then the blue and the green of his irises balance out and settle on one sentiment, an emotion strong enough to make Otabek’s misplaced disappointment of _This is all that the rest of my life is going to be_ that’s been plaguing his mind shrink till it diminishes to the farthest recesses of his mind.

 _Hope_.

**Author's Note:**

> ......
> 
> comments sustain me.  
> ([tattoo ref](http://tattoo-journal.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/07/Spine-Tattoo-19.jpg))  
>  
> 
> [tumblr](http://qitwrites.tumblr.com/)


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